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What airs outblown from ferny dells And clover-bloom and sweet brier smells.

John Greenleaf Whittier

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John Greenleaf Whittier
Age: 84 †
Born: 1807
Born: December 17
Died: 1892
Died: September 7
Journalist
Lawyer
Poet
Writer
Haverhill
Massachusetts
Smells
Bloom
Smell
Air
Sweet
Clover
Dell
Clovers
Airs

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Clothe with life the weak intent, Let me be the thing I meant.
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Romance is always young.
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So let it be in God's own might We gird us for the coming fight, And, strong in Him whose cause is ours In conflict with unholy powers, We grasp the weapons he has given,-- The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven.
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Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well.
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Yet, in the maddening maze of things, And tossed by storm and flood, To one fixed trust my spirit clings I know that God is good!
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What does the good ship bear so well? The cocoa-nut with its stony shell, And the milky sap of its inner cell.
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Truth should be the first lesson of the child and the last aspiration of manhood for it has been well said that the inquiry of truth, which is the love-making of it, the knowledge of truth, which is the presence of it, and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of human nature.
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The good is always beautiful, the beautiful is good!
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Bathsheba! to whom none ever said scat- No worthier cat Ever sat on a mat, Or caught a rat. Requiescat!
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Give fools their gold, and knaves their power let fortune's bubbles rise and fall who sows a field, or trains a flower, or plants a tree, is more than all.
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I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.
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Thanks to Allah, who gives the palm!
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Press bravely onward! - not in vainYour generous trust in human kindThe good which bloodshed could not gainYour peaceful zeal shall find.
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For still the new transcends the old In signs and tokens manifold Slaves rise up men the olive waves, With roots deep set in battle graves!
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Leaning on Him, make with reverent meekness His own thy will.
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Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race!
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They who wander widest lift No more of beauties' jealous veils, Than they who from their doorways see The miracle of flowers and trees.
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If thou of fortune be bereft, and in thy store there be but left two loaves, sell one, and with the dole, buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.
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With warning hand I mark Time's rapid flight, From Life's glad morning to its solemn night Yet, through the dear Lord's love, I also show There's light above me by the shade I throw.
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God's providence is not blind, but full of eyes.
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